Sickness and Wealth
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya is sent into a private clinic to recover the details of the members of New York's elite who are funding THRUSH.
This is the Foxton Clinic," announced Mr Waverly, indicating the brownstone building being shown on the projector screen. "It specialises in the gastro-intestinal disorders of New York's elite."

"What is our interest?" Napoleon asked.

He was sitting at the round conference table beside his partner. In answer to Solo's question, Waverly changed the image on the screen to one of a distinguished looking, grey haired gentleman in a white coat.

"Dr Frederick Foxton," he stated. "Owner of the clinic, and apparent THRUSH associate. We believe he is a go-between for the Hierarchy and some of his more affluent patients."

Waverly explained to the two men that some disturbing intelligence had been received. It seemed to suggest that several well-known businessmen and socialites were bank-rolling some of THRUSH's projects.

"We need to know exactly who these patients are. To this end, Mr Kuryakin is going to infiltrate the clinic as a patient."

"Me, Sir?" Illya asked, clearly confused. "Surely Mr Solo is more suited to passing himself off as a wealthy businessman."

"Ordinarily this would be the case," Mr Waverly agreed. "Unfortunately, there is a small chance that he may be recognised, given his propensity to mingle in higher social circles. We will, of course, be giving you a suitable identity. You are to be the Polish Count, Armand Poplawski."

As he was speaking, the door to the office opened, allowing UN.C.L.E.'s chief medic to enter. Dr Barrie was carrying a small flask, which he placed on the table as he took a seat next to Napoleon.

"Welcome Dr Barrie," Waverly greeted him. "I believe you have something which will persuade Foxton of Mr Kuryakin's need for his clinic."

"Indeed I do," the medic confirmed. "In this flask is a solution which will cause, among other symptoms, severe stomach cramps."

Illya grimaced at Dr Barrie's all-to-breezy tone. The man was obviously proud of whatever he had created.

"I can fake cramps without having to resort to such measures."

"But you can't fake the other symptoms," Barrie replied. "Dr Foxton will need to be convinced that you are a sick man."

"What will it do to him?" asked Napoleon, reaching for the flask only to have his hand slapped away by the medic.

Although he had sympathy for the discomfort Illya was facing, he was extremely glad he had not been chosen for this part of the assignment.

"On top of the cramps he will experience sweating, shortness of breath, and heart palpitations."

Waverly frowned. He expected his agents to do what was needed for an assignment, but he had no wish to cause any unnecessary health issues.

"Will this be a danger to him?"

"He will suffer no long-term problems," Dr Barrie assured him. "My Kuryakin is a very fit and healthy young man. I can't deny that it will be unpleasant, but it should achieve the aim."

He turned to Illya. "You will be in a lot of pain for the first two hours. That should be more than enough time for Foxton to discover just how wealthy Count Poplawski is."

"We are working on the assumption that Foxton will have files on each financial donor," Waverly cut in. "The first chance you get, you will find what you can. You are to maintain radio silence until your assignment is complete, unless you get into difficulty. Once you have what we need, get out."

Illya replied with a neutral 'yes sir', but inside he was deeply unhappy. It was bad enough for the enemy to cause him pain a lot of the time, but now his own side were doing it. Of course, he knew it was necessary, but it still felt a little unfair to him.

Ellie Chisholm smiled professionally at the good looking blond who had just entered the reception foyer of the Foxton Clinic.

"Good morning, Sir," she greeted him. "How may I help you this morning?"

Illya, who had been decked out in the latest European fashion, weakly returned the smile. He had taken Dr Barrie's concoction twenty minutes previously and it was beginning to kick in.

"I am in need of assistance from Dr Foxton," he told the receptionist breathlessly. "I am told he is the man to see about my intestinal distress."

"I'm sorry, Sir," she replied, in her best let-them-down-gently voice. "The doctor has an exclusive patient list. There is a hospital three blocks away."

Despite having been warned of what he would experience, Illya was not prepared for the force of the cramps. His guts felt as though they were tying themselves in knots, and the pain was excruciating.

"I would appreciate it very much if you could inform Dr Foxton that Count Armand Poplawski would be grateful for a moment of his time. "

Just as he reached the end of the sentence Illya was gripped a particularly powerful cascade of cramping, which brought almost him to his knees. The receptionist still seemed hesitant so, as he used the desk to stop himself from falling, he hit her with his tried and tested puppy eyes. Illya was far from ignorant as to the effect his eyes had on people and he wasn't above using that knowledge to get what he needed. The icy glare was the one he deployed the most, but he knew he could make women melt with his puppy-dog expression.

Ellie Chisholm's professional demeanour slipped slightly as she stared into the pale blue pools in front of her. She found herself looking for some justification to disturb Dr Foxton. Although the man was not on their patient list, he did say he was a count. She picked up the telephone.

"I'm sorry to bother you, doctor," she spoke into the receiver. "Could you spare a minute for a Count Poplawski?"

Illya smiled inwardly. Part one of the mission had been achieved; albeit painfully.

Before he knew it, Illya found himself being whisked off to a private room. Two nurses stripped him down to his underwear and furnished him with a hospital gown. While one got him settled into the crisp, white sheets of the bed, the other surreptitiously removed his wallet from his pocket. It was passed off, unnoticed by the Russian, to an orderly, who immediately took it and used the contents to research the new patient.

The pain in Illya's guts seemed to be intensifying by the minute, and he was becoming convinced that his heart was beating so fast it would burst. He knew that if he survived this ordeal, then it would be a long time before he would even think of forgiving Dr Barrie.

"I can see you're in quite a lot of discomfort," he heard Dr Foxton say. "But I need to examine you, so please try to lie still."

Illya couldn't prevent the gasp, which escaped his lips, as Foxton prodded his stomach.

"I take it that is painful to you."

He received a frantic nod in reply.

"Okay. I'm going to need to run a few tests. I will take samples of blood and urine, and I will also require a stool sample. The nurse will then give you something to relax you, and help you to sleep. We should have some preliminary results by morning."

After the humiliation of the exam Illya settled down to await his chance to begin his search. Hopefully, the agony he was in would have subsided by then.

Two hours after Illya's admittance to the hospital, the orderly who was checking his background had a result for Dr Foxton.

"By all indications, he is who he claims," the orderly reported. "He's the eldest of four sons born to Count Krzysztof Poplawski and his wife Countess Henryka. He has no occupation but doesn't need one as his personal fortune and assets amount to $4 million*."

"Dig deeper," Foxton told him. "There's something suspicious about him simply walking in off the street."

…

It was just after one in the morning when Illya deemed it safe to leave his room. His heart rate had dropped to normal, and the pain in his stomach was barely discernible. Still, his grudge against U.N.C.L.E.'s Chief Medical Officer was becoming deep-rooted. As he made his way along the deserted corridor, Illya wished he'd changed into his own clothes. He didn't relish the thought of being caught with his backside on display, but being in the gown meant he could claim he was sleepwalking, or disorientated.

Illya decided to search Foxton's office first, assuming that it would be where his private files would be kept. Of course, he had no idea where the office was, so headed for reception. Logic told him the office would be somewhere near there and he was right. It only took a matter of seconds for him to pick the lock.

Once inside, Illya immediately got to work opening every filing cabinet and drawer. The sound of a pistol being cocked behind him caused him to freeze.

"I knew I was right to be suspicious of you," Dr Foxton stated, as Illya turned around and held his hands up. "However, I hadn't realised just how big a catch you would turn out to be, Mr Kuryakin."

"Kuryakin?" Illya asked, with as much outrage as he could muster; looking from Foxton to the two dangerous looking orderlies behind him. "I am Count Armand Poplawski!"

Illya knew the game was up, but he had to try and bluff his way out. Of course, Foxton wasn't buying it.

"Okay 'Count', why are you rummaging around in my office?"

Illya shrugged. "Sleepwalking?"

Foxton refused to rise to the bait and gestured for the orderlies to take hold of their prisoner.

"If you would care to go with these gentlemen, they will put you somewhere secure."

Determined not to be taken without a fight, Illya charged at the doctor. Foxton was surprised by the sudden attack and had no time to take a shot. The Russian grappled for the gun and was just gaining the upper hand when he felt something hard and heavy strike the back of his head.

He slid to floor, entirely unconscious. Foxton tapped him with his foot and smiled.

"Take him to the cellar and chain him up," he instructed the orderlies, with a distinct streak of malice in his voice. "Mr Kuryakin is a gifted escapologist, so make sure he is unable to make any attempt to leave. Oh, you'd better check inside his mouth for anything explosive."

Dr Foxton couldn't keep the smile from his face. He was tired of being a THRUSH go-between and harboured dreams of joining the Hierarchy as a full member. If he were to hand one of U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents to them, it would earn him a fair amount of credit. If he could extract a little information before he told Central of the capture, then that should go even further in his favour.

"It's been two and a half days," Napoleon stated. "He should be back by now."

Alexander Waverly watched his CEA as he paced the office. Kuryakin hadn't been given a time frame to accomplish his mission, but he probably should have concluded things by now.

"I understand your concern Mr Solo, and I have to say I agree."

Napoleon stopped in front of the window and stared at the yellow light of the sun as it began to fade to the orange of evening.

"Permission to mount an extraction, Sir."

Waverly chewed on the end of his pipe. The information Kuryakin had been sent for was important, but not worth sacrificing an agent for; especially one as talented as Mr Kuryakin.

"Permission granted, but there's always a chance he is no longer at the clinic."

Napoleon nodded his understanding.

"Mr Kuryakin is your first priority," Waverly continued. "However, if you are able to locate the information he went for, please bring that back also."

"Yes Sir," Napoleon responded, already heading for the door.

….

It had been a very long, and humiliating, two days for Illya. From the moment he'd woken from being hit on the head, yet again, he'd realised he would not be escaping without help. He had been placed in a windowless basement room, which looked to Illya to be a purpose built interrogation room. At the centre of there was a steel chair, into which Illya had been strapped. To prevent him from any attempts to free himself, each hand had been forcibly balled into fist and wrapped in thick tape. His fingers were useless to him.

Over the two days of his imprisonment Illya had, in turns, been punched, slapped, electrocuted and suffocated. He'd been subjected to brain-shattering high pitched noises, irritating white noise and blindingly bright lights. Sleep and food had been denied him and he hadn't once been allowed to leave the chair. This is what had led to the humiliation.

Illya could endure a great deal of torture, but being forced to have to soil himself, and remain sitting in it, was a huge affront to his dignity. It still wasn't enough, however, for him to give up his secrets. Foxton had asked him every conceivable question about U.N.C.L.E., its command structure and the locations of worldwide offices and agents. Illya had remained silent throughout. Despite the cramps wracking his legs and back, and the powerfully sickening headache, he figured he could last at least two more days.

Illya groggily lifted his head as the door opened, but he allowed it to drop again when he saw it was Foxton.

"I have informed Central of your capture, Mr Kuryakin," the doctor informed him. "They will be arriving in about twelve hours to retrieve you. In the mean-time let's see if we can tackle that stubborn tongue of yours."

Illya glanced up to see what he would be subjected to this time. He tried not to show any reaction upon seeing a syringe in Dr Foxton's hand. Whatever the orange liquid contained within it was, Illya was certain it would eradicate is resolve to remain non-talkative.

…

It was disconcertingly easy for Napoleon to break into the Foxton clinic. For a place with apparent links to THRUSH, security was exceptionally lax. He easily picked the look of a rear door and slipped into what looked like a staff area. Opening the interior door, Napoleon found a reception area which, given the late hour, was deserted and in semi-darkness. Drawing his gun, he stepped out and began the search for his missing partner.

Years of experience told Napoleon he should look for a basement. Whoever the bad guy was, they all seemed to have the same predilection for keeping the nasty stuff underground. His inner voice reminded him that quite a large proportion of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters was beneath ground level, but he dismissed the thought. That sort of thing didn't mean anything if you were the good guys.

Within a matter of minutes Solo had located the stairs to the lower level and very cautiously made his way down. As he reached the bottom, he peered around the corner and saw two burly looking orderlies. They were quite clearly guarding the door behind them. Neither man heard the soft 'pfft' of Napoleon's special as fired off two darts which sent them into a blissful slumber. Dashing to the door, he looked through the grimy window and watched as Dr Foxton readied a syringe. Glancing at Illya, Napoleon was frowned at the amount of cuts and bruises he could see. There was a heavily torn hospital gown covering most of him, but if the Russian's face was anything to go by, then his torso probably wasn't pretty to look at either.

Before the doctor could inject his partner with whatever was in the syringe, Napoleon burst through the door and fired a sleep dart into the man's neck. He went down almost immediately. Lifting his head, Illya offered his partner a slight smile.

"It's about time you got here," he whispered.

Napoleon returned the smile.

"Come on, Tovarisch," he muttered, as he loosed Illya's bonds and cut the tape from his hands. "Let's get you out of here."

As Kuryakin shifted in the chair, an unmistakeable scent assaulted Napoleon's nostrils. Illya obviously hadn't been allowed to go to the bathroom. Although he tried not to let his disgust show, he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose up at the smell. The blond noticed the expression on Napoleon's face and flushed bright red with embarrassment. The American sensed the other man's humiliation and could understand it. He'd been in the same state himself on more than one occasion.

"Soon have you back at HQ," Napoleon told him.

"Nyet!"

"Look, Illya, if it's the mess, we can swing by my place and get you cleaned up first."

"It's not that," Illya asserted. "I still have an assignment to complete. Although, I would appreciate getting clean and into my clothes first."

Napoleon shook his head in exasperation. Illya was hurt, weak, and tired, but Solo knew it was a waste of time and energy arguing with him.

"I should have known better when it comes to that mile-wide stubborn streak of yours."

With very deliberate care, he helped Illya to stand. Despite being immobile for two days, the Russian managed to get to his feet, albeit extremely shakily, and painfully. Each step caused Illya to gasp with pain but Napoleon could see his determination build with each one. The short journey to Illya's room was going to take time, but get there they would.

After what felt, to Napoleon, like an eternity, they finally reached Illya's room. He had to try hard to stop himself from urging his partner on. Illya hadn't moved from two days, so the mere act of walking was absolute agony for him. Besides, Solo could tell from the fire in his eyes, that he was pushing himself as hard as he could. He simply had to hope they would do what was needed before the three sleeping beauties woke up.

Napoleon had walked close to Illya the whole way, ready to catch him if he stumbled. He couldn't help but wince at the various patched of blood which covered the torn gown. They ranged from rust coloured patches to those which were bright crimson; evidence of long and sustained punishment.

"Do you want any help?" Napoleon asked as the Russian headed to the bathroom.

His answer was a slight shake of the head. Illya couldn't even bring himself to look Napoleon in the eye until he was clean.

"Okay. Just keep the door unlocked."

Only ten minutes later, Illya emerged from the bathroom a different man. He was back in his own clothes, and his hair was damp from washing, but this seemed to be all that was needed for now. There was still a stiffness in his movements, but there was a determination radiating from him which was almost palpable.

"We need to hurry," he stated. "Someone from THRUSH Central will be arriving in a matter of hours. We need to get the list to Waverly before THRUSH can inform the names on it."

"I'll call in a clean-up crew to gather up Foxton, his goons, and anyone else who may show up," Solo replied. "Hopefully the Hierarchy won't know anything is amiss until late tomorrow."

This time Illya was able to search Dr Foxton's office uninterrupted. It didn't take him long to find the file of THRUSH donors. He handed it to Napoleon once the CEA had finished his call to HQ. Solo read glanced through to names and whistled.

"There are some very prominent and extremely rich people here," he told his partner. "Come on, let's get this to Waverly, and you to medical."

Illya opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again immediately.

"I don't really care where I go right now," he answered. "I need a lot of sleep, and medical has the drugs to help with that."

Napoleon's mouth dropped open as Illya shuffled past him towards the exit. He realised he must have been really hurting to go to medical voluntarily.

"I'll take you there as soon as the clean-up crew arrives. For now, go get in the car and wait for me."

…

It was less than twenty-for hours before Illya was demanding to be released from medical. It didn't help that he was being treated by Dr Barrie, the man who'd given him the horrendous cramps in order to access the Foxton clinic. Admittedly, drug had done what it was supposed to, but Illya wasn't going to let Barrie off that easily. The medic was happy to let Kuryakin go, under the strict condition that he would only do light duty. He knew he was wasting his breath, but he could at least say he'd done his job.

Napoleon arrived to take Illya home, another of Dr Barrie's conditions, and brought him up to speed on his assignment.

"Several members of New York society are now under investigation by various government agencies," he explained. "And the Thrushies we brought home haven't said anything yet, but it shouldn't be long."

"I would very much like to question Foxton myself," Illya practically snarled.

"Which is exactly why Waverly won't let you near him," Solo told him. "We need him alive. Don't worry though, I've got something planned for you, to help with all your pent up frustrations."

He leaned in closely so that none of the medical staff would hear.

"Dr Barrie says you should go home and rest, but I thought you'd prefer an hour in the shooting range."

The smile which Illya gave him reminded Napoleon of a feral wolf. It would take a while for him to get over the experience, but releasing his anger and frustration would be a huge step to towards healing.


End file.
